Unperfect Souls cg-4

by Mark Del Franco

  From the darkness of the wall cavity, warm green essence eased into my sensing ability. It peaked and gathered, slowly revolving. Eorla removed a glove and reached in. The essence flowed over her hand and vanished. She stayed with her hand outstretched, as if waiting for more, a subtle look of surprise on her face. She closed the hand into a loose fist as tears sprang to her eyes. Closing her eyes, she brought her hand to her lips and held it with her other hand. A single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek as she descended.

  I gently turned her from the wall. She leaned her head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her and swayed in place to comfort her. She let me, lost in her husband’s last memories, which had bonded to the blood in the wall.

  “His final thoughts were for the human child, then he said my name,” she murmured into my chest.

  “He was a good man, and he loved you. You didn’t need to do this to know that,” I said.

  She placed her hand on my coat over my heart. Warmth touched me. The dark mass in my head flexed at the sensation but didn’t do anything else.

  Eorla took an audible breath. “Thank you.”

  She adjusted her hat and took my arm. I escorted her back to the car.

  16

  Bastian Frye wasted no time arranging lunch the next day. I walked into the Ritz-Carlton Hotel late, half on purpose, half that’s-the-way-it-is. Taking a cue from Eorla and the Teutonic penchant for order and timeliness, irritating Bastian Frye wasn’t a bad way to start.

  The restaurant at the Ritz had a storied history. The Boston Brahmins made it the home of the power lunch for decades, a stuffy, pretentious room of white tablecloths and blue glassware. As the city’s power structure expanded into the upstart Irish and Italian immigrant populations, the luster of the place diminished until the dining room was a nostalgia trip for granddames and their granddaughters. No restaurant survived on tea and crumpets. Eventually, the hotel owner gave up and leased the space to an elven group, which rebranded the place Feudal, and the power lunch returned, only this time for the Teutonic fey set.

  Frye wasn’t alone. Brokke sat with him at a corner table. The two made an odd couple—the tall, regal elven court officer and the short, floridly dressed dwarven advisor. They weren’t speaking as I approached, but they didn’t need to speak to communicate. Neither expressed surprise when I arrived. They stood and extended their hands, an amusingly quaint gesture since we were all armed. At least, I was. I never left home without the daggers, and I had no doubt that a weapon or two lay hidden among the folds of their outfits.

  “You remember Ambassador Brokke, Mr. Grey,” Frye said.

  “Of course. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

  “I thought Bastian might enjoy my company,” he said.

  Frye’s long sip of white wine covered an expression that looked nothing like enjoyment. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” he asked.

  A waiter appeared and filled my water glass. I picked up the menu. “Sure. I’ll have the burger, medium rare, and a Guinness.” No one was amused.

  “We do not serve Guinness,” the waiter said.

  Figured. I didn’t care for German stouts. Too heavy and long on the finish. I didn’t think it was a prejudice. “Any draft ale, then.”

  Frye slid a long finger along his temple as he leaned on an elbow. “Mr. Grey, as I told you, the Guild believes that the Elven King may have been involved in the recent terrorist attack in this city.”

  “I’m not the best person to explain what the Guild thinks,” I said.

  Frye nodded slowly. “Indeed. I am aware of your history. My concern is that you may be fostering this idea.”

  “I have a number of opinions about the motives of the Consortium.”

  “The Elven King had nothing to do with the event,” he said.

  The waiter placed my beer on the table. I took a slip. “Really? Bergin Vize gained access to TirNaNog through the Irminsul gate in Germany. I’m sure the Elven King’s people don’t let just anyone near it, never mind use it.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Grey, we are investigating the loyalty of the guards,” said Frye.

  “Let’s talk about magical artifacts,” Brokke said. Frye’s long, pointed ears flexed down in irritation. The two of them obviously disagreed on their meeting game.

  I had a feeling I knew where he was going. “Okay.”

  “A spear was in the Elven King’s possession for many years. I wonder how it ended up at the Seelie Court,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. If it’s the spear I think you’re talking about, the last time I saw it was after Vize killed someone with it,” I said.

  “Yes, but he received the spear from you,” said Brokke.

  “Stole it from me is more accurate,” I said.

  “But if it was bonded to you, how was he able to take it?” he asked.

  The waiter returned with our plates. I assembled my burger. “I didn’t understand the mechanism of it. If it was bonded to me, it left me when I needed it most.”

  Brokke pulled at his substantial ear. “Interesting. Where is the spear now?”

  “I already answered that question. Your guess is as good as mine. It vanished when I sealed the veil between worlds.”

  He rubbed his hands against the tablecloth, staring into his lunch. “Lost again,” he muttered.

  “My turn. Why are you protecting Bergin Vize?” I asked.

  Brokke cut his fish, took a bite, and looked at Frye as if he, too, were interested in the answer.

  “We are not protecting him. He is in hiding,” he said.

  “Where?”

  Frye’s hooded eyes seemed to be assessing me. “My guess would be your own neighborhood.”

  With everything else happening in the Weird, an on-the-lam terrorist elf would fit right in. “I’ll take that as confirmation coming from you. Things are not going well in the Weird, and lately when things are not going well in a big way, your friend Vize is lurking in the background.”

  “If the events occurring on the waterfront are getting out of hand, perhaps the Guild might be of service,” said Frye.

  “As you can imagine, that’s not reassuring. If he’s so unwelcome, why aren’t you looking for him?” I said.

  Frye curled his lip in condescension. “As long as he does not make a threat to the Elven King, he is not my concern.”

  “But threats against the Seelie Court and—What are we up to? A few hundred deaths so far?—those don’t concern you either?”

  “That has not been proven,” he said. He shifted in his seat, arching an eyebrow as he withdrew a cell phone from his pocket. “You will excuse me,” he said.

  As Frye left the table, Brokke leaned toward me. “We have only moments before he realizes the insignificance of that call, Grey. I have something to say to you alone. You know I am a seer. I have tried to see the events unfolding here, but no matter how I attempt it, I cannot see you.”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I said.

  He glanced toward the restaurant entrance. “I know. I’ve enlisted others in the attempt, to no success. I have seen something that I want you to know. Something will happen, and soon, that will affect the Grand Duchess. I cannot see it. That leads me to believe whatever it is involves you as well.”

  “You know telling me that won’t necessarily change the future,” I said.

  He nodded. “Truth. The future is the land of the possible, the outcome of choices, not inevitabilities. But sometimes those choices narrow to a point of significance. I believe a time is coming when you will have a choice that affects the Grand Duchess. It will cause a profound change in the Elven Court. When that time comes, Mr. Grey, I implore you to consider the consequences for more than yourself.”

  “I’m not sure if you’re insulting me or warning me,” I said.

  “Neither. I am a seer. I say what I see. What you do with it is your choice. Even now, I feel things shifting, becoming less certain. Remember th
at royal blood flows in Eorla Elvendottir’s veins, and no one wants that kind of blood on their hands.”

  That startled me. “I’m going to do something that causes her death?”

  He shrugged. “That outcome is likelier than I care to see.”

  “Eorla Kruge is the last person I’d want to see dead,” I said.

  He tapped the table. “I as well, but the Wheel of the World is a relentless Thing.” He placed a pair of workman’s gloves on the table. “You will thank me for these someday. I don’t know why. He returns.” Curious, I slipped the gloves into my jacket. Frye resumed his seat. “Is your presence required elsewhere?” Brokke asked.

  Frye picked at his lunch. “It was minor. Mr. Grey, I will tell you this: You are being watched—by the Guild and by the Consortium.”

  It was hard to miss the obvious elven security at the end of my street or the Danann agents that appeared overhead when I was home. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You are also about to be arrested by the Boston police force,” he said.

  I dropped my burger. “For what?”

  “A substantial list of violations including inciting a riot and murder charges related to the deaths that occurred on Samhain. A movement is under way to involve your federal authorities in a very novel conspiracy-to-commit-treason charge,” said Frye.

  I pursed my lips. “I seem to have pissed someone off.”

  Frey leaned closer. “What’s interesting is that the Guild is cooperating with the human authorities to the point of advocating your detention.”

  “Is this a subtle way of telling me you’re not going to pay for lunch?” I asked.

  Frye smiled, a thin predator smile. “On the contrary, Mr. Grey. I am willing to pay for this and whatever else you need. I am authorized by His Majesty Donor Elfenkonig to offer you asylum with an offer of Consortium citizenship.”

  It took several heartbeats before I laughed. I couldn’t help it. To hear Bastian Frye, the man who ran counterintelligence activities for the Consortium, the same man I had worked against for years, offer me protection was damned funny. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  He gave me a sharp nod, either missing my sarcasm or pleased that I didn’t reject the offer out of hand. I didn’t clarify but let him think whatever he wanted. Keeping someone like Bastian Frye off-balance was not an easy thing.

  Brokke perused the menu. “Let’s have dessert, shall we?”

  I smiled. “Sure. Anything look good?”

  He eyed me and passed the menu. “I’ll let you pick.”

  I hate people who can read the future.

  17

  As I finished my dessert at the Ritz, Meryl texted me to meet her nearby at a local Guild watering hole. As usual, she was cryptic, but asked me to slip in the back unseen. To continue enjoying bars and restaurants, a good rule of thumb was never to go in the kitchen. The Craic House was no different than any other place in town. The rear entrance had the whiff of garbage, spilled beer, and bug juice. Sure, the Health Department had rules and inspections, but that didn’t mean the cockroaches read the manuals. The kitchen staff ignored me after their initial glances, as if it were perfectly normal for someone to walk in their back door and hang around. Guild employees frequented the restaurant, so maybe they were used to odd behavior.

  Meryl strolled in from the front of the restaurant. Over the clanking and banging of the dish-washing machine and cooking areas, several guys called out her name. If I were a different person, the number of men Meryl knew would irritate me. But then, if I were a different person, I wouldn’t have gotten involved with Meryl in the first place. Besides, if I did say something, she would wonder aloud why I wasn’t worried about the number of women she knew, then tongue-kiss a random stranger to make the bigger point. With Meryl, I either accepted who she was and didn’t make assumptions—likely or asinine ones—or she wouldn’t give me the time of day. In all fairness, she respected and accepted my past the same way, although pointing out my flaws continued to be one of her favorite pastimes.

  She tossed me a laminated ID badge for the Teutonic Consortium consulate with a picture of a security guard. A cool static settled over me from an essence charge on the badge. It was a glamour. The skin on my hands became smoother and paler, and my black jacket shifted to the regulation red outfit worn by elven security.

  “How’s your elven accent these days?” she asked.

  I held up the badge. “Perfect. Is this what I look like?”

  She pursed her lips. “You’ve got a more quizzical look on your face than he does, but it’ll get you through the front door.”

  “And I need that because . . . ?”

  She smiled. “Because Eorla Kruge doesn’t want to be seen with you.”

  “And you’re running errands for her because . . . ?”

  She shot a glance at the kitchen staff. “She wants to see both of us.”

  I nodded slowly. “You know what that means.”

  Forest Hills, she sent.

  The events of Forest Hills Cemetery, where Eorla’s husband was buried, kept coming back to haunt us. Part of the cemetery was destroyed, which was a small price to pay for the disaster that Meryl and I had prevented. The powerful surge of essence that was released, combined with the control spell that started the whole thing, twisted essence and produced the Taint. Meryl and I were a big part of stopping a cataclysmic meltdown, and Eorla played her role, too.

  “She’s getting close to something,” I said.

  Meryl shrugged and rolled her eyes in irritation. Forest Hills wasn’t something she liked talking about. She felt responsible for some of the deaths that had occurred, to say nothing of being the subject of a Guild investigation that had led to her arrest. The charges were dropped, but people continued pressing her about what she did. Including, apparently, Eorla.

  “I don’t trust her,” Meryl said.

  I chucked her on the nose. “You don’t trust anybody.”

  She grinned. “And that’s how I’ve survived as long as I have.” She glanced at her watch. “She’s expecting you in fifteen minutes. Give me a few seconds head start, then go out the back.”

  “I can’t leave with you?”

  She back-stepped and smirked. “Nope. I don’t want to be seen with you either.”

  On the way through the kitchen, she retrieved a bag from under a heat lamp and went out front. I shook my head. Cloak and dagger with fries.

  Out in the alley, I adjusted my stride to the stiff rhythm of an elven security guard. Back when I was working for the Guild, going undercover wearing a glamour was a routine part of the job. Going into the Guild undercover was not something I ever contemplated doing. I didn’t need to. They were impressed with me then.

  Near the Guildhouse entrance, I flashed my badge at three different sidewalk checkpoints. Consortium agents didn’t have automatic access to the Guildhouse, but they were extended the courtesy of bypassing the waiting queue during lockdowns. Without an appointment or high-level security badge, they didn’t make it past the reception desk, same as anyone else. I breezed through, though. I guessed Guild directors can wave through anybody they wanted.

  The Teutonic section of the Guildhouse was in the rear on lower floors. Not the best location as offices go, but that was the point. While publicly the Guild welcomed all fey in the name of unity, the Teutonic contingent were assumed spies for Donor Elfenkonig. No doubt they were. Guild spies in other places confirmed it.

  More badge flashing on the fifth floor earned me an escort directly to Eorla’s office. Despite her stature, Eorla kept a relatively modest yet modern office with glass-and-steel furniture—definitely not Guild issue. The window behind her desk shimmered with a spell that displayed a view of an ancient forest instead of the parking lot I knew was outside that part of the building.

  To maintain the facade of the glamour, I stood at attention while my escort announced me. Eorla nodded as she typed on the thinnest laptop I had ever seen. The escort passed
her my badge. Eorla stopped to look at it, then returned it with a smile. “Thank you. Has the material I requested from the archives arrived?”

  “No, ma’am,” the escort said.

  Eorla made a slight frown. “Please call. I don’t want this courier to wait.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The escort bowed and left.

  Eorla continued working as she passed me a sending. I’m sorry I have to leave you standing there. They’ll think it odd if you sit down and odder yet if we close the door.

  A few moments later, Meryl’s voice sounded out in the hall. “Look, I don’t care if you’re the Elven King’s nephew or his dog handler, I’m not turning over classified files to a hallway jockey. Tell Eorla, if she wants them, she gets them directly from me. If she has a problem with that, she can discuss it in my office.”

  Eorla arched an eyebrow and went to the door. “It’s fine, Albrin. Let her through. Ms. Dian is very dedicated to her work.”

  “Hey, Kru-chacha. Nice to see you again,” Meryl said loud enough for the guard to hear, and effectively put herself on their enemies-of-the-state list. The Consortium puts more effort into nothing than formality and strict adherence to royal protocol.

  Meryl snickered as she preceded Eorla, who closed the door.

  “You are incorrigible,” I said.

  She grinned as she sat in a guest chair. “And that’s my good side.”

  I sat next to her. “What’s the mystery all about, Eorla?”

  She leaned back, her eyes shifting between Meryl and me. “I’ve been reviewing the Forest Hills files, and I believe there are some gaps in the report.”

  Meryl shifted in her seat. “I sent you everything that was in the files.”

  Eorla smiled shrewdly. “Of course you did. I don’t think either of you believe that my own report contained everything that occurred.”

  Her admission didn’t surprise me. What had happened when she wasn’t observed was anyone’s guess. Eorla had made a deal with Nigel Martin. That much I knew. In exchange for her help at Forest Hills, she wanted the Guild director position that had been vacated by her husband’s death. Manus ap Eagan didn’t want it to happen, but after Forest Hills, Eorla was confirmed. I didn’t know if anything else happened that she didn’t report.